A meeting-house, no church at all,
With stained cathedral glass,
With lofty spire and arching hall,
And terraced lawns of grass:
No organ peals, no chanting choir,
No frescoed walls that men admire
Had this old meeting-house;
But roses wild their petals piled
About its sacred door,
And locust bloom shed rich perfume,
Upon the air, galore,
Around the meeting-house.
It stood upon a limpid stream
My childhood thought divine,
Whose waters pure did ever gleam
Like shimmering shine of wine;
It stood, alas! but stands no more
Upon the bank or pebbly shore
Of sunny Pleasant Run;
Yet in my dreams, it often seems
I see thee, Waterloo,
And see the flash of beaded splash
Upon the waters too,
While crossing Pleasant Run.
Yes, in my dreams, I often hear
The songs they used to sing—
Those solemn lays of reverent fear,
When Christ indeed was King:
Then sinners bowed when prayer was led
By some poor saint the ravens fed
At holy Waterloo.
How free from lust, the simple trust
Of soul that worshipped there;
How free from guile were men erstwhile
Whose creed was song and prayer,
The creed of Waterloo.
The meeting days were always fair—
God smiled on Waterloo!
And mother rode the dark brown mare,
And took the mule colt, too;
For fashion then did not beguile
A mother's heart with worldly wile,
Ah! happy days agone!
Oh! days no more when mothers wore
Sunhood and riding skirt,
And fathers dressed their Sunday best,
A plain check-cotton-shirt,—
Ah! happy days agone!
The sunlight dances on the hills
That shelter Waterloo;
I see the gold of daffodils
That bloom the meadow through—
The hour has come, for meeting's broke,
And now the simple country folk
Are leaving Waterloo!
The horses neigh; away, away!
Away, but not for home;
Grandma to-day will laugh and say,
"My boy, my boy has come."
Oh, blessed Waterloo!